


colors passing through us

by betony



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: In the land of Ingary, where such things as soulmates and red strings of fate really exist, it is not really so sad or surprising a fate to find your vision restricted to drab shades of gray until you stumbled across your heart’s own.
Relationships: Sophie Hatter/Howl Pendragon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 333
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	colors passing through us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluemoonrune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoonrune/gifts).



> Title from the poem of the same name by Marge Piercy. In addition, there are frequent quotes from and references to the original novel by DWJ scattered throughout. Happy Yuletide, and I hope you enjoy this!

In the land of Ingary, where such things as soulmates and red strings of fate really exist, it is not really so sad or surprising a fate to find your vision restricted to drab shades of gray until you stumbled across your heart’s own. Sophie, in particular, had few complaints; she was the most studious of her sisters, and read a great deal, and so knew rather a lot about the systems they had in other countries and found she did not care for any of them. She did not much fancy the idea of walking about with a stranger’s name above her heart, which the poor Strangians had to endure, and even less the prospect of watching the time she had left until a first encounter trickle down to nothing, as was the case in Zanzibar. 

As the eldest of three, Sophie was quite certain she would never meet her soulmate, and equally certain she could do without--except it did make her work at the hat shop difficult sometimes. Fanny, whose soulmate had been the girls’ father, was a dear in making sure the ribbons and trimmings Sophie placed on her hats did not clash dreadfully with each other, but more often than not, she was out trying to rustle up customers. It made for lonely work, and work Sophie could not even be sure Fanny would ask her to pick apart when she came in at last, because the colors were all wrong. Few in Market Chipping might be able to identify the different hues of a hat, but no one wanted to invite scorn of those who could. 

That was part of what led Sophie to venture out on May Day to find Lettie. She had used up all the supplies that Fanny had categorized by color for her, which meant there was nothing else for her to do but sit in the shop and feel worn out. The crowds were no less overwhelming in a single shade than Sophie imagined they might be otherwise, and worst of all was when a lordly gentleman accosted her. 

He had met his soulmate already--of course he must have, when he called her a _gray_ mouse so lightly!--and so Sophie knew he could not mean his kind offer of a drink or an escort to Cesari’s seriously at all, but still it unsettled her. She did not stop feeling flushed and unsteady until she crossed the street, and there she only found Martha in Lettie’s place. It made for one more shock to send Sophie back to the hat shop and wonder unhappily if she might ever leave. Her eyes stung, and she squeezed them shut and went to bed, hoping she might feel better in the morning. 

She did _not_ feel better in the morning, not least because Fanny was not home once again, and now Sophie knew how terribly she was being exploited. She sat down to make hats anyway, because it was her only skill, recklessly careless of which veiling she matched to which rosette. She told them all what colors she hoped they would be, but it did not seem to do much good. Her first customer, a tall grand lady, only laughed at her creations, saying they all looked like a child’s first faltering efforts, and Sophie, whose eyes still ached, was indeed quite short with her when she ought not to be.

That was how Sophie found herself cursed by the Witch of the Waste.

* * *

Being old was not so very bad, once Sophie had grown accustomed to the sensation, though it did make the world look oddly bright. She supposed it was being out in the sunlight; Martha must have been right about how much damage Sophie had done herself, hiding away as she did. 

It was even less unpleasant once Sophie found herself safely ensconced in the moving castle as the cleaning lady its inhabitants so badly needed. Her heart held no pity, not for Micheal and his dark worried frown, nor for Howl and his bright hair and brighter smile. She was a woman on a mission, and could not be charmed or cajoled or cowed out of her efforts to make her surroundings habitable, no matter how the others complained.

The only exception was in the evenings, when she sat by Calcifer’s side and watched his flames duck and dance. She found them fascinating, all the more once she realized she could pick apart the different bits of his flame by the color they must be. She hadn’t been able to at first, not until she had gone cleaning into the bathroom and picked apart the tubes Howl stored there. They were labeled, most ominously, _HAIR_ and _EYES_ and _TEETH_ , but also below, in smaller letters: _yellow_ and _red_ and _blue_ and _white_. Living inside a magical castle seemed to have made her cleverer, so that she could remember what they looked like to her vision and match this with what they must seem to Howl’s soulmate-blessed sight.

Not all her discoveries were made so peacefully, however. It seemed poking about Howl’s toiletries had the minor side effect of mixing them all up, so that Howl came yelping out of the bathroom screeching about his misery and sending Michael and Sophie fleeing for their lives. 

When they returned, it was to find Howl perched on a stool, oozing a foul-seeming substance. “Save me!” Calcifer hissed urgently. “This stuff is going to put me out otherwise, and I refuse to die of green slime!”

 _Green,_ Sophie filed away in her mind for later, even as she marched forward to scold Howl and have Michael lead him away into the bathroom to clean up. He saw rather more sense later that night, and Sophie found herself growing almost fond of him--until he owned up to courting Lettie. 

Still. Despite all her misery and worry, Sophie startled herself with the sudden thought that Howl’s eyes were a much nicer shade of green than his slime had been. 

-

" _The day Howl forgets to do that,_ ” Michael had said, meaning the possibility of Howl not spending half the morning locked in the bathroom, “ _will be the day I believe he's really in love, and not before.”_

For Lettie’s sake, Sophie thought long and hard about how such a thing might come to pass, but Howl simply would not be pinned down, even in her imagination. Finally she gave up and snorted loudly at her own fancies. Easier to believe anyone might ever consider her an authority on colors, eldest of three and cursed to never meet her soulmate that she was! 

“Damnation,” Sophie swore under her breath, entirely put out, and couldn’t bring herself to be ashamed of it. 

* * *

The strangest thing about the world that Howl came from was not their magical boxes or their moving carriages or even the fact that no one thought it strange that Howl took his housekeeper and apprentice with him wherever he went. No, it was that everyone seemed to see in color, dropping casual references to it in every conversation. Sophie did not think they were bragging of their luck, as might have been the case in Market Chipping; instead, she found it rather the opposite, that they were so accustomed to their ability that it did not occur to them to make much of it. 

Even the children! Mari was a sweet girl, and charming, and Sophie might easily have believed she had stumbled across her true love in childhood. Neil, on the other hand, was a surly terror and surely didn’t deserve such a blessing—and yet, he named colors just as easily as his sister did. The less said about the dreaded (and dreadful) Megan, the better. 

Howl, when Sophie tried to explain this to distract herself from the ride in his terrifying horseless carriage, only laughed. “It’s different here in Wales,” he explained. “We’re not like Ingary, like something out of a fairy story. We find our soulmates the hard way.”

By which Sophie gathered that seeing all the shades in the world meant nothing at all to the people here, and if that was so, then it stood to reason that Howl’s ability didn’t either. It wasn’t that she was pleased to realize this; no, rather she was relieved that some hapless girl didn’t lurk in wait out somewhere, irrevocably bound to Howl. Why, with their luck, she might even have an aunt or two in tow, and Sophie dreaded to think how much a bother that might cause.

So much of a bother, in fact, that it quite distracted Sophie from paying attention to anything at all until dark-eyed Miss Angorian opened the door, and Howl’s face stilled. He wore a look Sophie recognized at once from her reading, despite never having seen it before:unquestionably, it was the sort of look a man wore when catching sight of his soulmate. 

Miss Angorian glowered, Howl plastered on his most charming grin, and Sophie’s stomach turned.

* * *

“What is _that?_ ” Sophie asked, more sharply than she had intended. But Howl had just come trailing down the stairs in a suit she had never seen before rather than the blue-and-silver suit (or at least what Howl said was the blue-and-silver suit, and seemed to match up with the bottles she had seen in the bathroom) she had only just repaired. That sort of thing did make one feel unappreciated, even allowing that she had managed to inadvertently enlarge it.

“It’s black,” Howl replied, looking offended, and all the more by the dog-man’s confused yelp. “To honor Mrs. Pentstemmon before the world, to mourn her passing...You don’t hold with that sort of thing here in Ingary, do you?”

“No.” Possibly it was a stupid thing to say, but Howl seemed interested in what the equivalent might be. “Not when most people couldn’t name a single color if asked, not unless they meet their true love. We fray the edges of our clothes instead when, when we’re sad. When we lose someone.” 

Howl shuddered elaborately. “Ghastly custom.”

Sophie didn’t take the bait, as she supposed she was meant to. Instead she looked in the direction of her toes and tried not to remember her father’s funeral, when she’d had to rip out the fine edging of Lettie’s new Midsummer’s Day outfit so it might double as a mourning gown. Sophie had half-hoped indulging in destruction might leave her with a sense of terrible satisfaction, but instead the entire process had passed with nothing more than vague numbness. 

She looked over to find Howl watching her for an instant before his gaze, as much a slither-outer as the rest of him, darted away. Likely that was why he managed to trod on the hem of fine suit and pull it into disarray, with only the faintest muttered curse in response.

(His eyes had been gentle. Likely that was why Sophie’s neck had gone warm.)

* * *

Moving house meant more than one change, of course, but perhaps the most difficult to get used to was the doorknob. By now she had taught herself _red, blue, green_ and even the elusive _black_ , which meant it was just like Howl to go and switch the shades around.

In Michael’s absence (Martha’s future happiness aside, it was all the more convenient for Sophie that he’d found his soulmate) she supposed she would have to memorize the order of those two sides that weren’t either _yellow_ or the persistent _black._ How stupid!

To her surprise, it was Howl who took her by the elbow and tapped first one dab of paint, then the other. “Purple,” he said, “orange.” 

That was not all. He shepherded her through the purple-down door to quite the loveliest sight she had ever seen. Once, Sophie thought, it might only have made her eyes hurt; but now she couldn’t seem to keep from looking here and there, at all the flowers of a thousand shades that jostled for her attention. It was horribly difficult to keep her voice gruff, and even more so not to feel guilty at Howl’s reaction when he asked her what she thought of it or what, precisely, she saw.

“What should I see but flowers, and those all the same?” she grumbled back, determinedly obtuse. “We can’t all see as you do, after all.”

Sophie shuffled back, head down, until a puddle of sludge in the way put her in mind of something Calcifer had said once about Howl: _a plain man with mud-colored hair._ It was the oddest thing, and likely didn’t signify at all, but at the moment Sophie could have sworn she found mud-colored hair every bit as pleasing to the eye, as yellow or black might ever be.

* * *

“The worst part of being a dog,” Percival said, as he and Sophie stalked along the mansion’s trails, “was that I could see so little. Not that it would have mattered, if I hadn’t met Lettie, but once I did, and realized how much I was missing, it was that much worse going from seeing it all when I was—well, myself—before the Witch enchanted me. Lettie might not remember me, but that’s all right. It only takes a look, after all, before everything changes.”

Sophie nodded, and tried her very best to appear wise and elderly and above all such matters. Percival, though, didn’t seem to realize or appreciate this. Instead he hoisted the watering can more firmly and blithely continued: “Though of course you would know all about that. Lettie was quite right to send me to to you, although I expect it’s too late now.”

Sophie came to an abrupt stop, but Percival didn’t notice this, either. He frowned a little at Sophie’s clear bafflement. “But you must have noticed by now! I tell you it’s not a subtle change at all. I remember looking up at Lettie one minute and watching the world coming alive: I might not remember anything else, but I remember that.” 

His face was so earnest and lovelorn for her sister that Sophie almost forgave him, but then she recalled what a ridiculous thing he was suggesting. “Gah!” she shrieked and stomped up the gravel, but it was difficult to ignore the truth of what Percival said, particularly when she could see the sun glint off shutters she recognized to be black-and-yellow.

Bother what Percival or anyone else said. This soulmate business wasn’t worth it at all. “Besides,” Sophie muttered to herself, “it doesn’t matter, not really. Not when Howl hasn’t any soulmate of his own.”

This was rather less comforting than she would have expected.

* * *

Later, on Midsummer’s Day, with the smoking remains of Miss Angorian forgotten, Sophie allowed herself a moment to peer, fascinated, at her own self with her new sight. Lettie and Martha and Fanny she had already examined, and how all of them looked both more and less themselves in her improved vision, but Sophie herself hadn’t yet looked at her young arms, marked with brownish freckles, or the fascinating way her fingernails shone a dull pink. 

About her, she could hear the moving castle hum with noise, whether it was Michael exclaiming over Calcifer, or Wizard Suliman and Prince Justin embracing each other, or Fanny and Mrs. Fairfax putting away their brooms. Martha was clapping her hands with delight to see the spell lifted, Lettie loudly whispering her worries about which man was her true love if the first sight of Percival had transformed her perception of hues, and Sophie could not bring herself to mind.

Instead, Howl was laughing down at her, his hands in hers, and asking very gravely whether she would call her hair ginger.

Sophie bit back her first protest, that hair, and hers in particular, wasn’t meant to have anything in common with foodstuffs, and concentrated on what really mattered. Being soulmates with Howl was unlikely to be anything similar to what she’d imagined as a girl, but she was also certain it would be ten times more interesting. She found she could hardly wait to find out.

“Red gold,” she said, very firmly, and squeezed his hands back.


End file.
